


For Whom the Bell Tolls

by GateBreaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Angry Billy Hargrove, Background Demogorgon (Stranger Things), Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Person, Billy has a lot of regrets and he's trying to be better, Billy's POV, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Doesn't Always Succeed, Drinking, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, How Do I Tag, Hurt Billy Hargrove, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Violence, Smoking, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Teenage Drama, Threats of Violence, anger issues, but he tries, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:02:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GateBreaker/pseuds/GateBreaker
Summary: Billy hates everything and nothing. Hates anyone and anything. He hates and hates and hates. And nothing will ever change that.Except for Steve fucking Harrington, apparently.





	For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that started as a school assignment and then went on down the deep end and turned into this.  
> This is just an introduction of sorts so its a little shorter than I would like. I might tweak a few things later, maybe. I'm planning for one or two more chapters, which will be much longer than this first one.  
> Tags may change.  
> English is not my first language, so I apologize for any typos or grammar errors.  
> Hope you enjoy! ^.^

Billy Hargrove hates the small town of Hawkins, Indiana. Unfortunately, he is now a resident of said small town of Hawkins, Indiana.

Billy hates the bite of the wind on bare skin (misses the heat and the sun and the warmth that spread like wildfire on his skin). Hates the smell of the forest, of pine and leaves and how the scent travels through every nook and cranny and always always _always_ seems to find Billy (he misses the salt laden air of California, the rough, scorching sand beneath his toes and the searching blue in the horizon, where sky and sea blur into one, where it sucks Billy in like an abyss and he _falls_ ).

He hates the endless silence of the wind, the leaves brushing like symphony and dissonance all rolled into one in a perfectly imperfect cacophony of disconcerting _quiet_. The stillness that reaches out across fields of grass and wheat and trees and the _nothingness_ that swallows you whole.

He hates desolate roads and deserted streets. Hates the motionlessness of the people, the lethargy, the stagnation. Hates how it sinks its claws deep into your skin and _doesn’t let go_ , how it draws blood and howls for more. How it pushes and pulls and drags you down with it as it feasts like a starving creature. Ugly and unpleasant and entirely _persistent_.

He hates the overcast skies and the cold touch of rain on his face. The fire that’s dragged out from inside of him kicking and screaming and left to die and freeze and _hurt_ , laid on the icy, hard ground as something shifts and churns and takes its place inside of him where the fire was supposed to _burn_.

He hates the people and their simple minded simplicity. How dull and uninteresting and tedious they all are. How pathetic and pitiful and how they’re all too scared of Billy Hargrove, who has blood on his knuckles and a sharp grin across his lips, who shows no mercy in a fight and has a fire born _rage_. Who is all too willing to punch you across the face because you were in his way and all too knowing of the ways to make you submit and kneel beneath his boots with merely a twist of his finger.

But most of all, he hates the new house, he hates Susan and Max and his _fucking dad_ and the fact that he had to leave everything behind. He hates how much he misses the crisp ozone in the air, the heat of the sun beating down on his skin. Hates how the memory of the smell of salt in the wind, the slight taste of it on his tongue, the humidity of the water settling on his bones; hates how it’s enough to burrow deep down his throat and clog and grow and _choke_.

He hates how much he misses _home_.

California hadn’t been perfect, wasn’t any sort of place that Billy would declare a paradise. But it was _home_. It’s where he was born and grew. Where he went to school and went to the beach. Where people knew him and knew _of_ him. Where Billy knew every street, every alley, every corner store, and gas station. It’s where his mother died and where his mother is buried – cold and stiff and so very _still_ , buried deep in the ground in a hole filled with dirt and rocks and bugs, and life moves on, _Billy_ moves on because he has to, because he can’t think of her while she’s decaying and crumbling to pieces and so _alone_ , can’t think of what it would be like to be with her, keeping her company, the two of them alone together, can’t think of how it would be like to breathe and breathe and breathe and just _stop breathing_.

California wasn’t perfect. Hadn’t been perfect. But it was _his_. It was _his_ – his his his _his_ – but now it’s _gone_ because he’s in Hawkins and it’s the other side of the country, which could be the other side of the planet with its different time zones and different weather and different people and different streets, alleys, corner stores and fucking gas stations.

And so he’s hateful and spiteful and _angry_. He’s the spark in a wildfire and the wind that stokes the flames to reach higher, to spread farther, to hunt larger. He’s the thunder in the tempest, loud and brash and unexpected, the boom in the distance that gets nearer and nearer and _nearer_ every breath you take and the sudden anticipation that makes your blood pump and your heart beat against your breast in a rapid staccato of drumbeats as you lay in wait. He’s the violence of the sea, the pressure of the earth that makes marble out of sand. He’s a natural disaster with the force of a tsunami and the tenacity of an earthquake.

Billy hates everything and nothing. Hates anyone and anything. He hates and hates and hates and hates. And nothing will ever change that.

Except for Steve fucking Harrington, apparently.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and if you found any error or misspelling please tell me.  
> Thanks for reading! ^.^


End file.
